Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

All this she explained to her daughter-in-law, gasping a little as she spoke because of her allergy to neem blossoms. Savita reflected that Mrs Mahesh Kapoor looked a bit like a pond heron herself. Drab, earthy-brown, dumpy unlike the rest of the species, inelegant, hunched-up but alert, and endlessly patient, she was capable of suddenly flashing a brilliant white wing as she rose up in flight.

Savita was amused by her analogy, and began to smile. But Mrs Mahesh Kapoor, though she smiled in response, did not attempt to find out what Savita was so happy about.

How unlike Ma she is, thought Savita to herself as the two continued to walk around the garden. She could see resemblances between Mrs Mahesh Kapoor and Pran, and an obvious physical resemblance between her and the more animated Veena. But how she could have produced such a son as Maan was still to Savita a matter of amusement and amazement.

The next morning Mrs Rupa Mehra, old Mrs Tandon and Mrs Mahesh Kapoor met in Prem Nivas for a chat. It was fitting that the kind and gentle Mrs Mahesh Kapoor should have acted as host. She was the samdhin — the ‘co-mother-in-law’—of both of the others, the link in the chain. Besides, she was the only one whose own husband was still living, the only one who was still mistress in her own house.

Mrs Rupa Mehra loved company of any kind, and this kind was ideal. First they had tea, and matthri with a mango pickle that Mrs Mahesh Kapoor had herself prepared. It was declared delicious all round. The recipe of the pickle was analysed and compared with that of seven or eight other kinds of mango pickle. As for the matthri, Mrs Rupa Mehra said:

‘It is just as it should be: crisp and flaky, but it holds together very well.’

‘I can’t have much because of my digestion,’ said old Mrs Tandon, helping herself to another.

‘What can one do when one gets old—’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra with fellow-feeling. She was only in her mid-forties but liked to imagine herself old in older company; and indeed, having been widowed for several years, she felt that she had partaken of at least part of the experience of old age.

The entire conversation proceeded in Hindi with the occasional English word. Mrs Mahesh Kapoor, for instance, when referring to her husband, often called him ‘Minister Sahib’. Sometimes, in Hindi, she even called him ‘Pran’s father’. To refer to him by name would have been unthinkable. Even ‘my husband’ was unacceptable to her, but ‘my this’ was all right.

They compared the prices of vegetables with what they had been at the same time the previous year. Minister Sahib cared more for the clauses of his bill than for his food, but he sometimes got very annoyed when there was too much or too little salt — or the food was too highly spiced. He was particularly fond of karela, the bitterest of all vegetables — and the more bitter the better.

Mrs Rupa Mehra felt very close to old Mrs Tandon. For someone who believed that everyone in a railway carriage existed mainly to be absorbed into a network of acquaintance, a samdhin’s samdhin was virtually a sister. They were both widowed, and both had problematical daughters-in-law.

Mrs Rupa Mehra complained about Meenakshi; she had already told them some weeks ago about the medal that had been so heartlessly melted down. But, naturally, old Mrs Tandon could not complain about Veena and her fondness for irreligious music in front of Mrs Mahesh Kapoor.

Grandchildren were also discussed: Bhaskar and Aparna and Savita’s unborn baby each made an appearance.

Then the conversation moved into a different mode.

‘Can’t we do something about Ramnavami? Won’t Minister Sahib change his mind?’ asked old Mrs Tandon, probably the most insistently pious of the three.

‘Uff! What can I say, he’s so stubborn,’ said Mrs Mahesh Kapoor. ‘And nowadays he is under so much pressure that he gets impatient at every little thing I say. I get pains these days, but I hardly worry about them, I’m worrying about him so much.’ She smiled. ‘I’ll tell you frankly,’ she continued in her quiet voice, ‘I’m afraid to say anything to him. I told him, all right, if you don’t want the whole Ramcharitmanas to be recited, at least let us get a priest to recite some part of it, maybe just the Sundar Kanda, and all he said was, “You women will burn down this town. Do what you like!” and stalked out of the room.’

Mrs Rupa Mehra and old Mrs Tandon made sympathetic noises.

‘Later he was striding up and down the garden in the heat, which is good neither for him nor for the plants. I said to him, we could get Maan’s future parents-in-law from Banaras to enjoy it with us. They are also fond of recitations. That will help cement the ties. Maan is getting so’—she searched for the proper word—‘so out of control these days. . ’ She trailed off, distressed.

Rumours of Maan and Saeeda Bai were by now rife in Brahmpur.

‘What did he say?’ asked Mrs Rupa Mehra, rapt.

‘He just waved me away, saying, “All these plots and plans!”’

Old Mrs Tandon shook her head and said:

‘When Zaidi’s son passed the civil service exam, his wife arranged a reading of the whole Quran in her house: thirty women came, and they each read a — what do they call it? paara; yes, paara.’ The word seemed to displease her.

‘Really?’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra, struck by the injustice of it. ‘Should I speak to Minister Sahib?’ She had a vague sense that this would help.

‘No, no, no—’ said Mrs Mahesh Kapoor, worried at the thought of these two powerful wills colliding. ‘He will only say this and that. Once when I touched upon the subject he even said: “If you must have it, go to your great friend the Home Minister — he will certainly support this kind of mischief.” I was too frightened to say anything after that.’

They all bewailed the general decline of true piety.

Old Mrs Tandon said: ‘Nowadays, everyone goes in for big functions in the temples — chanting and bhajans and recitations and discourses and puja — but they don’t have proper ceremonies in the home.’

‘True,’ said the other two.

Old Mrs Tandon continued: ‘At least in our neighbourhood we will have our own Ramlila in six months’ time. Bhaskar is too young to be one of the main characters, but he can certainly be a monkey-warrior.’

‘Lata used to be very fond of monkeys,’ reflected Mrs Rupa Mehra vaguely.

Old Mrs Tandon and Mrs Mahesh Kapoor exchanged glances.

Mrs Rupa Mehra snapped out of her vagueness and looked at the others. ‘Why — is something the matter?’ she asked.

‘Before you came we were just talking — you know, just like that,’ said old Mrs Tandon soothingly.

‘Is it about Lata?’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra, reading her tone as accurately as she had read her glance.

The two ladies looked at each other and nodded seriously.

‘Tell me, tell me quick,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra, thoroughly alarmed.

‘You see, it is like this,’ said Mrs Mahesh Kapoor gently, ‘please look after your daughter, because someone saw her walking with a boy on the bank of the Ganga near the dhobi-ghat yesterday morning.’

‘What boy?’

‘That I don’t know. But they were walking hand in hand.’

‘Who saw them?’

‘What should I hide from you?’ said Mrs Mahesh Kapoor sympathetically. ‘It was Avtar Bhai’s brother-in-law. He recognized Lata but he didn’t recognize the boy. I told him it must have been one of your sons, but I know from Savita that they are in Calcutta.’

Mrs Rupa Mehra’s nose started to redden with unhappiness and shame. Two tears rolled down her cheeks, and she reached into her capacious handbag for an embroidered handkerchief.